


Sound of Stars

by Waffle-o (XylB)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: FAHC, GTA Universe, M/M, Michael is sexually frustrated by Ryan, Smoking, aren't we all, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 13:45:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10107287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XylB/pseuds/Waffle-o
Summary: Michael's always fallen so easily for Ryan.(Or, the fic that's been sitting on my desktop for two months that needs more plot and I'm lazy.)





	

"I got takeout!" Michael calls as he shoves the door open with his back, spinning into Ryan's apartment and grinning to himself as he pockets the key. Okay, so technically he's uninvited, but who's going to say no to takeout and video games? He even brought Watchdogs 2 over.

He whistles cheerfully to himself as he sets down the bags on the kitchen counter, unpacking the cartons and sorting out which ones are his and which ones are Ryan's. He swings the bag off his shoulder, holding it up as he walks into the living room. He frowns at the emptiness - Ryan's usually in here or something's paused when he's not - and he can't hear the shower, so where is Ryan?

"Ryan?" He tries, dropping the backpack next to the sofa and walking over to turn on the Xbox.

A shout erupts from a room and Michael freezes, instinctively reaching for the gun in his waistband. When there's no other sound, he quietly pulls it out, creeping slowly into the hallway - it's silent and dark, his footfalls muffled by the soft carpet. He's sucking in a breath to call for Ryan again when he hears a loud moan from the room two doors down to his right. Michael can't quite process the realisation until there's a quieter sound and a thud of furniture and he backs the fuck up out of the hallway, stowing his gun and back-pedalling to the sofa.

Ryan's having _sex_ , and that's something Michael wouldn't have seen coming in a million years. He's never even heard Ryan talk about meeting people, let alone hooking up with them, and the thoughts send a confusing mix of jealousy and arousal through him. Arousal because Ryan's fucking someone _right there_ and jealousy because Michael's been trying to get in the guy's pants for _months_ now. And those moans sounded suspiciously like a dude, which means Michael definitely has - or _had_ \- a chance and fuck, maybe Ryan just didn't pick up on the flirting or the hinting or maybe he was waiting for Michael to ask outright. _Fuck_.

Michael kicks himself and picks up the backpack, retreating to the kitchen and gathering up the takeout again. He resolves to come back in half an hour, maybe take a drive and loop back around because, okay, he may not have any chance to sleep with Ryan, but he's still Michael's friend and damnit, Michael cleared his plans for tonight so fuck it, Ryan's seeing him at some point today.

\--

He spends the half hour sitting in his car in the garage, stretched out in the backseat and watching Netflix on his phone while he eats his half of the takeout with chopsticks he doesn't quite know how to use - should have swiped one of Ryan's forks on the way out. He resolutely tells himself he will not reveal that he walked in on Ryan fucking someone pretty thoroughly into a mattress - he can still remember the thump of the bed - and he will smile and nod and pretend he knows nothing.

Half an hour ticks by and Michael wipes oil off his chin as he cleans up, packing his empty cartons into the plastic bag so he can toss them in Ryan's bin and they don't stink up his car. He shoulders the backpack again and takes his time walking up the stairs and winding down the hallway, shuffling his feet against the carpet and putting on his most winning smile as he knocks sharply on Ryan's door.

It opens surprisingly quickly, and Michael's met with a flustered Ryan, hair messy and shirt on backwards.

"Wrong way around, dumbass," he teases, flicking Ryan's shoulder before barging past him and marching towards the kitchen.

"I got tak - " he starts, but stops at the same he stops walking, standing on the kitchen threshold.

And come _on_ , not only does Michael have to live with the knowledge that Ryan does indeed hook up with people and have athletic sex that personally, Michael would love to be a part of, but almost like adding insult to injury, it's _Ray_ in the kitchen, leaning on the counter and scrolling through his phone.

"Uh, hi?" He says when Michael halts, looking up awkwardly from his phone. When he turns to Michael his hoodie shifts and Michael can see hickeys on his neck and bruises around his throat. Michael is weirdly turned on at the hint of it, but that could be a by-product of ignoring his arousal for the past half hour.

"Ray," he says flatly. "Wasn't expecting you to be here."

"Well, that sounds like my cue to leave," Ray says, eyes lifting to somewhere behind Michael, presumably to Ryan.

"No, you can stay," Michael says, forcing a smile because he's not actually angry at Ray. He's just feeling unfairly possessive right now, unfairly turned on, and unfairly jealous. Because not only does Ryan sleep with people, he sleeps with _Ray_ , and Michael can't compete with that because he knows how good Ray is in bed. They've fooled around a few times and Michael was under no impression that it was exclusive, but come on, _Ryan_? No wonder he wasn't taking Michael's clues - why the fuck would anybody if Ray's there?

Ray shakes his head and straightens, coughing hoarsely as he adjusts his hoodie.

"Nah, I've got to go get Geoff's shit," Ray says.

"Weren't you supposed to do that last week?" Michael asks, and Ray shrugs.

"Better late than never, right?" He asks, and Michael laughs because he could never be angry at Ray for long. Not really.

"Slacker," he teases, and Ray grins lopsidedly.

"You love me," he replies before slipping past Michael and leaving.

Michael dumps the bags on the counter and starts rifling through them again, taking out Ryan's cartons and shoving them to the left. He starts flattening his empty ones and Ryan makes a confused noise beside him.

"Did you eat already?" He asks. Michael glances over - Ryan's shirt is the right way around now - and swallows nervously.

"Uh, yeah," he replies, somewhat sheepishly. "Got stuck in traffic."

Ryan raises an incredulous eyebrow but doesn't comment. Michael helps himself to a Red Bull from Ryan's fridge and hands Ryan a Diet Coke.

"I brought Watchdogs 2," he says as he walks into the living room, putting down the bag again and noticing guiltily that he forgot to turn the Xbox off when he left, but luckily for him it wasn't the last thing Ryan had hooked up to the TV, so the monitor's still dark. Michael switches the cables as Ryan shuffles in behind him, plopping down firmly on the sofa. Michael finds Watchdogs 2 and slides the disc in, backing up to collapse next to Ryan.

"Ray's a biter," Michael teases, gesturing to the faint hickey low on Ryan's neck. Ryan blushes endearingly and pulls his shirt up to half-cover it.

"Hey, not judging," Michael says, fishing out his controller and turning it on. "I'm sure you've had worse from him."

He really wishes he could stop talking but there's this morbid curiosity burning inside him and he desperately wants to know what's going on between them even if it'll only hurt him more.

Ryan shrugs and pokes through a carton, neatly snagging a cube of chicken between his chopsticks and lifting it to his mouth. Michael kind of hates that he can't tear his eyes away from that mouth, red and slightly swollen, clearly kiss-bitten. He hates himself but also _really_ wants to worsen the red, a malicious sort of possessiveness that flashes through him and makes him want to draw blood.

God, he really needs to get laid.

Or visit that fight club, the one that leaves him with busted knuckles and bloody noses and a hundred dollars richer from his own bets.

Michael craves something, either the heady musk of Ryan's cock down his throat or the taste of hot copper on his tongue. He's honestly not too picky which, at this point.

He forces himself to look at the screen and hates the words that next pour out of his mouth.

"So are you and Ray a thing, then?"

Ryan chews quietly and reaches for his own controller, syncing it up while Michael sits through loading screens.

"We hook up sometimes," Ryan says.

Michael nods and kicks his feet up on Ryan's coffee table as the game starts.

"Cool," he says, completely unconvincing. Ryan doesn't call him out on it.

\--

Michael needs stitches above his eye and his lip is bleeding but he's grinning, cracking his sore knuckles and gesturing to the guy to _bring it on, busta_.

The guy rushes towards him with brass knuckles raised, Michael's blood already on them and his clothes. Michael opted for the rougher fights, the ones with brass knuckles and steel-toed boots, even though he has nothing of the sort on him.

Doesn't fucking matter.

He knocks the guy out in one clean uppercut to his jaw, tired of the foreplay. He already busted the guy's nose a few spars ago, and he's ready to collect his money and move on to a tougher guy.

He high-fives someone on the edge of the ring and pushes past to get to the bookie, counting dirty bills with bloody fingers as they're handed to him.

"Nice job, you want another round?" The guy asks in a nasally voice, sharp and discordant with the thrum of adrenaline bouncing through Michael's bones.

"Yeah, next level up," he says, and glances around to see the other fights going on, from the scrappy underdogs at one end to the heavyweight fight to the death type - not quite to death, but close enough. He hopes to get into that ring one day.

The bookie's setting him up with a guy when a hand curls around Michael's arm; pulling him roughly away from the bookie.

"Aw, hey," he says, but he looks up and sees a familiar skull mask with even more familiar blue eyes narrowed at him. Michael sighs and sloppily salutes the bookie, smiling sadly.

"Sorry Jay, gotta go," he says, and the bookie nods, quickly turning to another customer and forgetting all about Michael.

Michael follows Ryan up the rickety metal stairs out of the underground rings, wiping away the blood seeping into his eye and grimacing at the sting in his lip.

"So, why'd you pull me out?" Michael asks, sliding into Ryan's Zentorno.

"Geoff wants to talk to you," Ryan replies, taking off the mask.

"Talk to me, huh? Sounds ominous." Michael's chin is caught by Ryan's fingers, firmly turned to face Ryan himself. Michael meets his eyes and Ryan swipes a thumb over Michael's split lip. It burns with the rough caress.

"You're gonna need stitches," he says. Michael nods dumbly and cracks a smile.

"You wanna do them for me?" He jokes, but his breath hitches as Ryan leans in, studying his cut. His breath puffs out evenly over Michael's lips, making them tingle.

"I could," Ryan says, hot air over Michael's nose. His eyes flick down to Michael's and his thumb strokes over Michael's lip again. "I've got a medkit in the back."

Michael, bold with the thrill of a fight and the boost of adrenaline, leans in a little, bumping their noses together. Ryan's hand shifts to his cheek and Michael feels his heart rate pick up, thumping against his ribs and threatening to jump up into his throat. He gasps and Ryan presses his lips to Michael's, landing softly on his stinging split lip. Michael doesn't have time to react before Ryan's pulling away, swiping his thumb over Michael's cut again and then dropping his hand to the gearbox between them.

"But we should probably get you to Geoff first," he says conversationally, like he didn't just tilt Michael's world on its axis. Michael gapes and - with Ryan's quick glance - remembers to shut his mouth, still a little parted from the surprise kiss. Michael gulps and settles back into his seat, pointedly avoiding Ryan's eyes as he looks out the window.

"What does he want to talk to me about?" He asks, and Ryan starts the car.

"Job," Ryan says shortly. Michael nods and they peel away from the curb into the black night cloaked over Los Santos.

With Ryan's eyes fixed on the road, Michael gingerly brings his fingers up to ghost over his lip, tingling from something more than just pain. He smiles in spite of the sting.

\--

Michael gasps and curls his fingers tighter in the guy's hair - a sandy brown that borders on familiar - and the guy sucks sloppily, noisily, glancing up at Michael with eyes that are the wrong blue.

Arousal rushes through his veins like heroin, making everything all electric and _tingly_ and Michael surrenders to the primal instinct of _take, take_. The guy - not Ryan - jacks what he can't swallow, and it's fucking _good_ , Michael will admit that. Maybe the best bar blowjob he's gotten.

He comes while the guy's tonguing over the head, the sensation dampened by the condom but still enough for Michael. Michael kisses the guy dirty and they go back to the guy's place so he can fuck Michael over a counter or something - Michael doesn't give a fuck.

It's amazing, okay? Amazing and not Ryan and Michael's absolutely, completely fine with that.

\--

"Weren't you on a murder break?" Michael asks, reloading his shotgun.

Ryan shrugs and lowers his gun, staring at the dead guy on the floor.

"It was getting boring," he replies, and Michael rolls his eyes.

"Only you could think not murdering is boring."

"Guess that's what makes me special."

"Stop flirting and get the drugs, assholes," Geoff commands over the comms. Michael feels his cheeks heat and turns away to sweep the room for the briefcase.

Ryan finds it, holding it delicately between two fingers as he holds it up to show Michael. At his nod, Ryan grasps the handle tightly and signals for them to escape.

Escape means Ryan's motorcycle, which means Michael's hands on his hips, which means Michael's dick is interested.

Fuck his dick.

\--

Okay, but also _fuck_ his dick because shit, Ryan's fucking hot when he's smoking, blowing out a stream of smoke into the dusky night.

Escape meant split up into pairs and lay low, and lay low for them meant Ryan's apartment, relocating to the roof.

Michael's throat clicks as he tries to swallow in hopes to dispel his dry throat. Ryan takes another slow drag - lips pursed sweetly around the filter - and Michael has never wanted to be a cigarette this badly before. He exhales through his nose and tips the ash by his side, gesturing for Michael to come lay down beside him.

"C'mere," he says through the cigarette, adjusting his elbows where he's propped up on them. Michael's eyes follow the strong lines of his body down to where his feet are crossed casually at the ankle. Michael _wants_.

So he lies down on his back next to Ryan, also propping himself up on his elbows. Ryan offers the cigarette and Michael declines with a shake of his head. He wants something warmer than a secondhand cigarette tonight.

Ryan shrugs - _suit yourself_ \- and takes another drag, deep and slow as his eyes meet Michael's. Michael leans in, almost subconsciously, and Ryan blows out smoke over his mouth, his nose. Michael blinks and doesn't move, waiting for the next exhale.

It comes closer than he expects, Ryan leaning in towards him and concentrating the stream to Michael's parted lips. The acrid, bitter scent of smoke fills Michael's senses and he scrunches his nose up, ready to blow the smoke back out when Ryan seals it inside him with his lips, forcing Michael to expel it through his nose.

And they continue with it like that for a little while, Ryan shotgunning cigarette smoke into Michael's mouth and following it with his lips, warm and wet and perfect against Michael's. The cigarette burns to Ryan's fingers and he drops it carelessly between them, stubbing it out with his thumb and reaching over to wind a hand in Michael's hair, opening his mouth to kiss Michael properly.

Michael lets his jaw fall slack and all he tastes is nicotine and smoke as Ryan's tongue slides over his teeth, running over his own. But if Michael licks at the space under Ryan's tongue he can taste something more, something like _Ryan_ , and he gets that sudden, visceral urge to fuck or fight again, rising hot in his blood. It makes him rougher, bolder, scraping teeth over Ryan's lip and pushing him down flat on his back to straddle him. Ryan grunts and his hands fly to Michael's hips, holding him steady as Michael kisses harder, turning a little more reckless with every second that passes.

He barely lets Ryan breathe, either, pulling away to wipe his mouth and returning immediately, sudden and fierce and hot and graceless. It's matched by Ryan, cool and calm and collected below him, effortlessly creating a rhythm Michael falls easily into, like he always falls so easily for Ryan.

A warm hand runs up under his shirt, splayed over his spine and pushing him down slightly on the bulge he can feel forming under his ass. Michael smiles into the kiss and deliberately rocks down, drawing a short groan from Ryan. He thinks he could get addicted to that noise.

Without warning, Ryan flips them, rolling Michael onto his back and pressing up hot against his front. His hips fit up against Michael's ass and he smirks a little as he grinds, making Michael moan. The bastard knows exactly what he's doing and it simultaneously annoys and turns Michael on. He retaliates with a hand in Ryan's hair, tugging him closer to crush their lips together, let the now-familiar warmth of Ryan's kisses wash over him like water. Ryan plants a hand beside Michael's head and Michael spreads his legs, silently begging for a touch - _any_ touch - with small rolls of his hips.

Ryan deftly undoes his button and zip, slipping his hand in to wrap strong, sure fingers around Michael's cock, making his moans pathetic with just a few pulls. Ryan grins and keeps kissing Michael even as Michael's mouth falls slack with his noise, coaxed out of him by steady tugs of Ryan's hand.

It really doesn't take long - embarrassingly short, Michael thinks - for Michael to come, spurting messily onto his abdomen as Ryan milks it out of him, unrelenting and as inexorable as a melting glacier.

Ryan groans something into his mouth and his hand leaves, a sudden rustling of clothing following soon afterwards and Michael doesn't want to break away to look down. The clear slap of skin on skin makes it obvious soon enough, anyway - Michael shivers and moans again at the thought - the _reality_ \- of Ryan jerking off above him. Somehow that's hotter than if he was just rubbing off against Michael, and Michael lets that realisation burn through him and make him hot all over again. He can't get hard again that quickly but the desperation edging into Ryan's kisses damn well makes him want to try.

Ryan's breathing turns to sharp huffs and quick inhales, these impossibly hot little hitches that Michael desperately wants to hear more of, to draw them out of Ryan with his hand or maybe his mouth.

"Come on me," Michael gasps between hurried kisses, threading a hand into Ryan's hair and holding him still as he licks behind his teeth. "Make a goddamn mess on me, Ryan, _do it_."

Ryan moans low into his mouth and shudders above him, the slap-slap becoming wetter as come splatters over Michael's navel, striping over his abdomen where his shirt's rucked up. Michael groans at the feeling and something about it makes his blood cool a little, that unfair possessiveness creeping away as Ryan comes on him - _on_ him, marking Michael up with the scent of it and Michael's knees go weak at the thought.

Ryan sighs heavily through his nose as he pulls his hand away, resting it on Michael's ribs and dragging a thumb through the come smeared on Michael's skin. Michael hums into the kiss and finally lets Ryan pull away, panting as he stares down at Michael. And shit, if he's always going to look this good after sex - or whatever almost sex they just did - they've _really_ got to do this more often.

"Fuck," Michael says, trying for emphatic and getting breathy.

"Maybe next time," Ryan replies, smirking again. The mention of a next time makes Michael's heart stutter and his dick pulse.

Ryan rolls off of him and Michael looks up at the sky as he catches his breath, lips and skin still tingling with the memory of Ryan's touch. He feebly pulls his shirt down, uncaring of the drying come - he'll deal with it later, when the memory isn't quite so bone-shakingly hot - and watches his breath puff into the night air.

Ryan nudges his shoulder and points up at a collection of stars, dotted prettily around a wisp of a cloud.

"That's Cassiopeia," Ryan says in that smooth, conversational way of his. "Greek myth."

"Yeah?" Michael asks, tilting his head slightly to follow the curve of Ryan's arm and finger better. "What'd she do?"

Ryan arm drops and presses up warm against Michael's side as he talks, his voice faintly raspy with smoke and deep in the same way he kissed Michael.

Michael isn't really listening to the words, but he's focusing on the curl of Ryan's voice when he says Michael's name, dragging out the vowels and making it sound like something Michael could fall in love with. He distantly wonders if the stars are looking down on them, too, making up stories and tales and laughing in the same way Ryan does when Michael cracks a joke.

He doesn't think the stars would sound nearly as nice as Ryan.


End file.
